


not made of porcelain pleasantries

by deathsweetqueen



Series: Stony Bingo 2018 [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bearded Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Breaking Up & Making Up, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Jealousy, M/M, POV Tony Stark, Post-Break Up, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), STONY Bingo 2018, Smut, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Stony Bingo, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Top Steve Rogers, Wine Throwing, World Travel, past consent issues, technically Civil War Team Iron Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: It's been months since the Accords, since Lagos and Bucharest and Vienna and Leipzig and Siberia, and Tony is just starting to pick up the pieces around him; he's just starting to recover from the heartbreak and damage and lies.If only Steve Rogers would stop stalking him around the world, wanting to talk.





	not made of porcelain pleasantries

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "a battle/fight/confrontation" square on my Stony Bingo card.
> 
> I just want to say, writing this particular fill, where Steve and Tony were in a pre-existing relationship at the time of Civil War and it happened just the same way, well, let's just say it's actually a plot point that messes with me a whole lot, so this was my way of coming to terms with that personally as well. But at the same time, the whole sneaking around idea was something I was wanting to write for a very long time, especially post Infinity War where Wanda and Vision did a similar thing. So, I wanted to write it for Steve and Tony ft. divorce beard Steve.
> 
> Warnings: Tony's POV post CW, so no one is perfect in this scenario, but it is slightly biased in Tony's favour and Tony is very, very angry at Steve at the beginning; explicit sexual content; mild stalkerish behaviour; wine throwing, which is assault, guys, don't try it at home; discussion of mild dubious consent in the past.
> 
> EVERYTHING ENDS HAPPY, I PROMISE.
> 
> I feel the need to say that this is all just my opinion and my interpretation of CW, Steve and Tony. Anyone's free to disagree but just, please, no hate. Let's all be civil (pun unintended)!
> 
> Oh, and one last PSA: the title for this fic comes from R.K.'s poem, 'I am the wolf only barely contained', which can be found at http://clizzy.tumblr.com/post/74887803165/have-you-considered-that-maybe-i-am-not-pleasant
> 
> Wow, okay, super long notes; I'll let you guys read it now, I promise!

**Madrid, Spain**

“What the fuck is that on your face?” Tony demands.

Steve rubs the heel of his hand against the thatch of hair growing out of his jaw, sheepishly.

“A beard,” he says, defensively.

Tony snorts. “A beard? Seriously? Didn’t you stop growing like at puberty?” he taunts.

Steve sighs. “Tony-”

“Don’t,” Tony cuts him off, sharply. “Just… kindly fuck off.”

“Tony,” Steve begins, urgently. “Please. Just… _please_ , let’s talk.”

There are lines in his face, more than there should be, because the super-soldier serum keeps him young and beautiful and so perfect that Tony could literally be sick to his stomach.

 _What, the outlaw life not suiting you?_ Tony thinks, bitterly.

“No.”

Tony shoves back the chair and walks away from the table, leaving Steve sitting alone at a table for two.

* * *

**Havana, Cuba**

Tony is busy chatting up a very handsome man at the bar, even if he’s simultaneously cataloguing all of his imperfections, especially when unfortunately compared with the last man he was fucking, when he catches sight of a familiar face sitting at one of the tables, staring at him like his eyes could cut through stone.

_For fuck’s sake._

“Excuse me for a minute,” Tony apologises to the man (because, for the life of him, he can’t remember his name) and before he second-guesses it, he takes his wine with him.

Alcohol will get him through this conversation.

“Go away,” he warns Steve as he approaches the table.

Steve shrugs. “It’s a free country.”

“Cuba is _not_ a free country,” Tony hisses. “Everyone knows that!”

“It’ll have to do.”

“Go away.”

“No.”

“Why are you here, Rogers?” he demands.

“I wanted to see you; I wanted to _talk_ to you,” Steve insists.

“Call my PA; make an appointment. Oh, wait, I forgot, I don’t entertain international fugitives,” he snaps.

Steve scowls. “That’s not fair, Tony.”

“Yeah, well, I’m done with being fair. Being fair got me a broken suit in an abandoned HYDRA base in Siberia. So, deal with it,” Tony says, with no small amount of spite.

It does as he wished, because Steve gives him a full-body flinch to the remark.

“You need to go,” Tony repeats himself.

“Why, you missing your new friend?” Steve sneers, shooting the man at the bar a grim look.

“You don’t get to play jealous boyfriend here, got it? That is not fucking allowed. Now, _go_.”

Steve flattens. “Tony, let’s just talk. Please, we _need_ to talk.”

“Did you not hear me in Madrid? I don’t _want_ to talk, Rogers. Leave me alone.”

Steve inhales. “I can’t do that,” he says, stubbornly.

“Why the fuck not?” Tony demands.

“What are you doing here that’s so important that you can’t talk to me for five damn minutes?” Steve persists.

“It’s none of your damn business,” Tony retorts.

“And _that_ guy is?” Steve narrows his eyes. “I thought your playboy days were over, but I guess you can’t teach an old new tricks,” he says, viciously, clearly wanting to bite back just as hard as Tony had bitten him.

Tony stares down at his wine and swirls it within the glass.

No one ever said he was mature.

“You know what? Fuck it,” Tony declares and promptly throws the contents of his glass right in Steve’s face, walking away.

It was a dick move, he knows it; it was completely inappropriate and crass and bordered on assault, if it wasn’t already, and he should go back there and apologise, but as sad and savage as it sounds, it’s the first time he’s wanted to smile in a very long time.

He digs his heels in and storms right out of the bar.

* * *

**Bengaluru, India**

“Hi, Tony.”

Tony jumps.

“Are you-are you _stalking_ me?” he snaps.

“I’m not stalking you,” Steve exhales.

“Are you sure about that?” Tony asks, coldly. “Because this is the third time in a two months that you’ve tracked me across the globe, and considering you found me _here_ , of all places… that sounds like stalking, Rogers.” He shakes his head. “Do you _want_ me to throw wine at you again? And now, you’ve even crashed a wedding. Wow, you just keep racking up a list of sins, don’t you?”

Steve flinches. “You’re not an easy man to track down,” he says, all prickly.

Tony snorts. “I’d actually believe that if I didn’t know Natasha Romanoff ran off to you the second I told her to get the hell out of my sight.”

“Don’t be mad at her,” Steve says, quietly, looking down at his slippered feet.

Tony shakes his head. “According to you people, I’m not allowed to be mad at _anyone_ ,” he says, bitterly.

“That’s not true,” Steve argues. He licks his lips. “You can be angry at me.”

“Wow, Steve,” Tony says, sarcastically. “Thank you _so much_ for permission. I was feeling really guilty before, but you made it all better.”

“Tony,” Steve rakes a hand through his thick, blonde hair, streaked with dirt. “Please, Tony,” he begs, unashamed. “Please, please, just come with me somewhere. We can talk; I just want to talk.”

“Why?” Tony demands. “What could _talking_ do now, Rogers? What could talking do now that it didn’t six months ago? Don’t you think it’s a little late for talking?”

“Of _course,_ it is!” Steve explodes and then immediately deflates, like he’s barely holding his emotions in check. “But I don’t have any other choice.”

“You have plenty of choices,” Tony offers. “You can walk away now and leave me alone. You could be good to me for once, Steve.”

Steve bites his lip. “You really want me to leave?” he asks, lowly, almost desperately.

Tony remembers _years_ with this man, in bed, in the shower, watching television, eating at the dinner table, and then he remembers, like a blow to the skull, the way Steve’s face had shuttered away all emotion when he asked him _did you know?_ and he replied _yes_ , because apparently, it was that easy to destroy him.

Tony opens his mouth and no words come out, and he looks away, a flush of shame rising up his neck.

It isn’t fair; if he’s half the man he pretends to be, he should tell Steve that he wants him to go, he wants him to leave and never return, he wants to never see him again.

So, why can’t the words come out of his mouth?

“For fuck’s sake, Steve,” he ends up whispering. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“I know.” Steve rubs his hands over his beard again (it’s a surprisingly endearing and depressing habit all in one). “ _Fuck_ , I know,” he moans. “I should go. If I were any sort of… I should go. I should leave you alone because I fucking hurt you and I’m a monster, and I just… I need to talk to you, Tony. Please. Please, let me talk to you.”

“You _keep_ saying that,” Tony hisses, a sudden bout of anger surging inside him. “You keep… Steve, I don’t want to talk to you right now, okay. I just…” He closes his eyes. “I’m trying to heal here, Steve. I’m trying to get better, _do_ better. I can’t do this with you right now.”

Anger blooms bright and hot and quick in Steve’s eyes. “You’re at a wedding, Tony,” he chides, like he’s so disappointed that Tony is _pretending_ with him.

 _Buddy,_ Tony wants to grind out. _You don’t know the half of it._

Pretending is fucking your partner into the headboard and then leaving him to go and search out your BFF and pseudo-ex-boyfriend, all the while hiding the fact that said BFF and pseudo-ex-boyfriend brutally murdered your partner’s parents in cold blood while being brainwashed by a Nazi terrorist group.

Pretending is watching a video of the man standing right next to you running your parents’ car off the road, beating your father to a bloody pulp and choking the woman you call _mama_ , the only one who almost bled to death just to bring you into this world, while she gasps for life, for death, for mercy, for pity, for _everything_ , and then finding out that your partner, the man you love, the man you wanted to share your entire universe with, the man you would cut open your own heart for, your partner knew the whole fucking time.

_That’s what pretending is, and you sure as hell don’t look like that after finding out someone’s pretending with you._

You look like a fucking fool.

“Yeah, well, weddings heal,” Tony says, blithely, gulping down some of his wine. “There’s good food, good clothes, good music, good energy, good everything.”

Steve’s lips twitch like he finds him the most amusing thing he’s ever seen, the anger suddenly absent from his features.

“Do you even know anyone here?” he teases.

“The guy getting married runs the south-central Asian division of Stark Industries,” Tony explains. “He’s a good guy. In his late twenties, young as fuck but brilliant as hell. The bride’s a cardiothoracic surgeon. She works for Narayana Hrudayalaya; she actually consulted on the removal of my arc reactor.”

When Tony turns around, Steve’s face is so soft, so fond, that Tony has to start awkwardly looking away all over again before the blush starts rising – Steve has this way of looking at Tony like he’s the singular momentum in this entire universe, like he’s the sun and the moon and the stars of Steve’s universe, and it sends warmth curling low in his stomach, spiralling right down to his feet and fingers.

It makes him want to smile and smiling in front of Steve Rogers is as good as forgiveness.

He’s not ready for forgiveness. 

“I can’t do this with you, right now,” he says, wearily. “These people were kind enough to invite me to their wedding, Steve. I just want to enjoy it.”

“Right now,” Steve mouths, his face warming with hope that seems so alien on his face, like the concept of hope hadn’t occurred to him in a very long time. “Right now, as in maybe later?” he asks.

Tony sighs. “You aren’t going to leave me alone, until I say _yes_ , are you?” he asks, bitterly.

Steve shrugs. “I don’t want to end it like this.”

Tony looks at him, mournfully. “We don’t always get what we want, Steve,” he murmurs.

* * *

**Fribourg, Switzerland**

“Not again,” Tony moans, slumping his head forward when Steve inconspicuously takes the empty seat opposite him.

Steve ignores him. “This is strange little town for you to be in,” he comments.

Tony shakes his head. “I’m on my way to Geneva, _not_ that it’s any of your business,” he says, sternly.

“Any particular reason you’re going to Geneva?” Steve asks, casually.

Tony narrows his eyes. “Fuck off, Rogers. You know exactly why I’m going to Geneva and I know exactly why you’re here and I don’t fucking appreciate it,” he snaps, his hands curling around the edge of the coffee table. “Just so you know, if you’re only here to fuck up the amendments to the Accords that _will_ happen tomorrow, I am fully prepared to go right _through_ you.”

Steve crosses his arms over his broad chest. “And you know me so well, don’t you, Tony?” he asks, frustrated. He leans in when the pitch of his voice starts to get a little distracting to the other patrons of the café. “All I’ve been saying this _entire_ time is that I want to talk to you.”

“Why can’t you respect the fact that I don’t _want_ to talk to you?” Tony demands. “It’s not that hard, Rogers. All you have to do is get up and walk out of this café and not contact me.”

“I can’t do that,” Steve admits.

“Why the hell not?” Tony snaps.

“Because I’ve already lost so much, Tony. I can’t lose you too. I made mistakes, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight for you.”

“So, basically, because you’re a selfish bastard,” Tony grits out.

“Yeah,” Steve says, shamelessly, but there’s enough guilt in his voice that it makes Tony flatten abruptly. “I am, I guess.”

Tony looks away from his sharp, blue gaze.

“Look, I’m not perfect, I know that. I shouldn’t be here. _I know_. But I can’t leave things the way we left them. You know me. You know the kind of person I am, and you know that I’m stubborn as hell.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, miserably, running a hand across his face. “Yeah, I know.”

“That apology letter was shit,” Steve says, suddenly.

Tony raises an eyebrow.

“It was,” Steve says, defensively. “I spent days on writing that, but it just came out worse and worse and I told Sam what I wrote, after I sent it, and he called me a fucking idiot because that wasn’t an apology, was it? It was a _I’m sorry you don’t understand why I did all those things_ , not a _I’m sorry I hurt you_. It was a bunch of excuses, and you have every right to throw that wine in my face again but give me a chance to apologise for real.”

“Apologise for what?” Tony pushes.

Steve takes a deep breath. “For not telling you about Bucky and your parents.”

Tony ignores the vicious pang that blooms in his chest at the mere memory of watching that godforsaken video. He clears his throat.

“So, not for the Accords then?” he asks, carefully.

Steve stares at him. “I think we both owe each other apologies over that,” he says, solemnly.

Tony laughs. “I love how you started off by saying that you were apologising to _me_ , and now you’ve turned it back on me.”

“I never said I didn’t make mistakes,” Steve argues. “But you did too, Tony.”

“I did,” Tony says, immediately. “Did I fuck up? Royally. But mine were professional mistakes, Steve. They hit you in your ego. But yours weren’t _just_ professional mistakes; they were personal. They hit me in my heart.”

Steve flinches and he looks down at the table. “Yeah, I guess that’s true,” he murmurs.

Tony sighs. “You know, I hate it when you look like a moping puppy dog,” he muses. He turns around, catching the eye of one of the waitresses at the bar, who strides over to them with a wide smile on her face. “Juste un café noir pour mon ami, s’il vous plait?”

The waitress nods and leaves to get the coffee for Steve.

“Thank you,” Steve says, awkwardly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Tony snorts. “It’s not like I don’t have the money,” he points out.

“I want to know why you didn’t tell me about the Accords,” Steve asks, quietly. “You knew, right? You knew way before Lagos.”

“I’ve known it was a possibility since Johannesburg,” Tony confesses.

Steve waits until the waitress drops his coffee right in front him, before leaving them alone, to start speaking again.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Steve asks, urgently. “If you knew about the Accords, if you knew what was going to happen, why didn’t you come to me?”

“I thought I could handle it,” Tony admits. “I thought it wasn’t as bad as it looked. I thought… hell, I don’t know what I thought anymore.” He exhales.

“You must’ve known that I wouldn’t agree to it, not to anything they were offering,” Steve says, pointedly.

“Yeah, I knew,” Tony says, wearily. “But there was something worse, you know. I wasn’t just talking out of my ass when I said that.”

Steve wrings his hands together, before taking a brave sip of the coffee. “What was the something worse?” he asks.

“It was a domestic law, which should raise red flags immediately with you,” Tony says, scornfully. “Pretty much, all enhanced beings would be turned into a paramilitary force under the United States government, to be used at will, _including_ the Avengers.”

“Shit,” Steve breathes, stomaching exactly what that would’ve meant for all of them.

“If we hadn’t signed _that_ , well, we would’ve been in prison, for sure,” Tony explains. “At least the Sokovia Accords gave us the option of retirement.” He leans forward. “Why do you think Ross was so aggressive with everything, with _you_? He was pissed that the other law didn’t pass. He wanted control and he didn’t get any, so he took it out on us.”

Steve swallows hard. “What happened to the domestic law?”

There’s a flicker of a smile on Tony’s face. “Don’t you worry about that,” he says, gently.

Steve’s face cracks open with fear and concern. “Tony, what did you do?” he whispers.

“I _said_ , don’t worry about that,” Tony says, sternly.

“Oh, my God, Tony,” Steve bemoans, tipping his head back against the chair. “Do I even want to know what you did?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t anything illegal, dumbo,” he says, scathingly. “I got my lawyers ahead of it.”

Steve clinks the coffee cup loudly against the saucer. “Thank you for doing that, for us,” he murmurs, slumping forwards, the anger and righteousness leaving him in one, great swoop.

Tony shrugs. “Just doing my job; no big deal,” he says, blithely.

“But you have to know that the Accords weren’t a good idea, Tony,” Steve insists.

“Who said they weren’t a good idea?” Tony demands. “Were they poorly executed? Of course, but they were always a good idea, Steve. We need oversight. I don’t care why you came here; you’re not going to get me to say that the Accords were a bad idea,” he warns.

Steve grimaces like he wants to continue arguing, but he picks his battles well, remaining silent.

“Fine,” he grits out.

“Look, at the end of the day, you’re right,” Tony admits, reluctantly. “I should’ve told you about the Accords when I found out; I should’ve told you about Ross; I should’ve _probably_ tried to understand where you were coming from _more_ , but I didn’t. And… honestly, the biggest mistake that I made, I shouldn’t have brought Spiderman into the fight. He was too young; he could’ve died and that was wrong. I fucked up with him most of all,” he muses, gruffly. “But I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Steve says, quietly. “I didn’t give you enough credit. I should’ve let you explain your side more; fuck, there are a hundred different things I should’ve done during that whole fiasco. I’m just… I’m sorry.”

Tony looks away from the gentle look in his eyes – he’s not ready for that just yet.

“Look, we aren’t going to get anywhere by arguing about the Accords,” he points out. “Can we just put that aside as ideological differences and talk about the _real_ elephant in the room?”

Steve takes a deep breath, almost as if he’s bracing himself for the next part of the conversation (Tony supposes he needs to), and then nods.

“I want to know why you didn’t tell me,” Tony says, coldly.

“Tony-” Steve begins and then stops talking.

“Don’t try and slither out of this one,” he threatens. “Why didn’t you tell me about Barnes and my parents?”

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” Steve insists.

“That isn’t an explanation,” he snaps.

“You wouldn’t have reacted well,” Steve hedges.

“Wow,” he shakes his head, ignoring how much Steve’s words _hurt_. “If you really think I’m such a shit person, Steve, why are we even having this conversation?”

“I _don’t_ think you’re a shit person,” Steve retorts, angrily. “Of course, I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t _be_ here. But you have to admit, your reaction in Siberia wasn’t exactly comforting.”

His face twists like he hates to even point this out.

“Don’t you dare throw that back in my face,” he says, coldly. “And get off your fucking pedestal, Steve. I’d like to see how well you retain your self-control if you watched a video of Rhodey murdering your mother in cold blood and then finding out I knew about it for _two fucking years_.”

Steve’s face is absolutely white, the darkness of his beard so much more vivid on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, weakly.

“I want a better explanation than just _I’m sorry_ ,” he hisses. “I deserve one and you _know_ that.”

Steve nods, quickly. “I know; you’re right. I… I just… you need to know that at the beginning, when Natasha and I were on the run from HYDRA, I didn’t know it was Bucky. I mean that. I knew that HYDRA had orchestrated their deaths and I had my suspicions, but I didn’t definitively know it was Bucky.”

Tony stares at him, just for a moment; he needs to know if Steve is lying to him all over again.

He almost wishes he could see some falsehood in his eyes, just so he could get up and walk away from this conversation, but he doesn’t.

“I believe you,” he whispers, after a moment of digesting that. “I do… I believe you.”

“I found out only after I started to look for him, and I _know_ , I know I should’ve told you. I was going to, I swear, but I didn’t know how to bring up the conversation. I didn’t know what to say to you. I didn’t know how you’d react. I just… _I didn’t know_. I’m a coward and I am so fucking sorry,” Steve says, urgently.

“I know,” Tony says, quietly. “Fuck.” He laughs, harshly. “I wish you’d just be a dick about it, but you aren’t.”

Steve bravely reaches for Tony’s hands, propped up on the table.

Surprisingly, even to himself, Tony allows the touch.

“I didn’t want to bring up any old wounds. I knew that your parents’ death, it wasn’t something you dealt with well, and I was so scared for Bucky, and I thought if I told you, you’d react badly, and he’d react badly, and I’d lose you both. I couldn’t lose either of you. I was just trying to keep you both, but it was selfish and unfair and it’s a shit excuse, I know it. But it’s all I’ve got, Tony,” Steve sighs.

Tony stares down at their hands, entwined. “You have to understand how sketchy it is, our entire relationship, if you were keeping this secret from me. You have to understand how shitty it made me feel about _everything_ , when I found out,” he bites out. “You have to understand that you fucked me, knowing this, and that just makes all of that twisted and wrong to me now. It makes me feel like you used me as your shield, to keep Barnes safe. It makes me feel like acceptable collateral damage to you, and that’s not okay.”

“You were _never_ acceptable collateral damage to me,” Steve says, vehemently. He shakes his head. “Please don’t pretend like fighting you didn’t destroy _me_ either.”

“It didn’t seem like that from where I was standing,” Tony shoots back.

The spite is still thick inside him, even if Steve’s words peel off slivers of the weight inside him.

“Then you weren’t looking properly,” Steve retorts, roughly. He hunches over. “But you’re right; I never meant for you to feel that way, about everything that happened between us. I never meant for you to _doubt_ us.” He clutches at Tony’s hands. “But Tony, Tony, you’ve got to know how I feel about you. Tell me, _please_ , that you know how I feel about you?” he insists.

For the first time in a very long time, Tony finds himself lost for words.

“I _love_ you, Tony,” Steve says, fiercely. “You aren’t a shield; I wasn’t using you to protect Bucky, and it _kills_ me to know that I hurt you at all, let alone make you think all those horrible things. But, maybe, my word doesn’t mean much right now to you.”

“Okay,” Tony says, quietly, and looks down at tea leaves swirling in what is left of the boiling water in his cup.

“Do you believe me?” Steve asks, hopefully.

“Honestly? I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Tony confesses. “But… I appreciate you saying it. Steve, I’m not in a place where I can say _yes_ or _no_ to you right now. I’m sorry, but that’s just how I feel.”

However, for some reason, he’s incapable of pulling his hands away from Steve’s.

Steve nods, as if he had been expecting that answer, but he still looks as though one careful, vicious word from Tony is enough to pull him to pieces.

Tony hurts _for_ him and he hates himself for it.

“You’re much more introspective than I remember you being,” Steve muses.

“Yeah, my therapist thinks so too,” Tony says, dryly. He clears his throat. “So, there’s this chocolate factory a few towns over. You interested?”

Steve’s pallor is still a worrying ashen-white, but his lips twitch in amusement. “You’ll make up any excuse to go chocolate shopping, won’t you?”

Tony makes a high-pitched, affronted noise, motioning for the waitress to bring them the bill. “If you _must_ know, all the Christmas chocolate is finally on sale and I’m getting myself enough of their _tiramisu_ , _forêt noir_ and _café viennois_ bars to last me at least six months. But judge if you must,” he sniffs, haughtily.

“Fine,” Steve sighs, long-sufferingly, and if Tony forces himself _just a little_ , it’s almost like nothing’s changed in the last six months and Tony’s just jumped on Steve early that morning, trying to convince him to do something adventurous for the day. “But I get to buy the _amaretti_ ones.”

* * *

**Casablanca, Morocco**

“Oh, no, not again,” Tony moans.

Steve looks hurt. “I thought we left things well in Switzerland,” he says, half-heartedly.

Tony narrows his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you think just because we had a post-breakup heart-to-heart that everything was okay between us?” he demands.

Steve groans. “You’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you?”

“You don’t sound as interested as I thought you would be?” Tony points out, ignoring the punch of hurt Steve’s words caused.

Steve gives him such a doleful smile that it just makes Tony feel more like shit than he already was.

“I don’t know how to make this better, Tony,” he confesses. “I just…” Steve shakes his head. “I don’t want any more secrets between us. I don’t want us to fight anymore. I want us to be on the same side again. Is that so impossible?”

“Look, this is hard for me,” Tony tells him, wearily. “Even if I was somewhat okay with you after our conversation in Switzerland, that doesn’t mean that I’ve mysteriously forgotten everything that happened. And I don’t think you have, either.”

“I haven’t,” Steve agrees. “But I’m willing to work on it if it means we still have a shot together.”

“You want to go to couples therapy?” Tony teases.

Steve shrugs. “If you think it’ll help.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You do realise that they’re labelling you a war criminal now, right? I don’t know much about professional ethics for counsellors or psychologists, but I don’t want to go to a session and have a SWAT team waiting for us.”

Steve’s lips twitch. “Yeah, that might put a damper on everything.”

“That’s an understatement,” Tony comments. “But we should work on this?” he asks, hesitantly.

All the lines in Steve’s face soften. “If you’re okay with that. If you’re still not ready… I’m willing to wait.”

“Are _you_ ready?” Tony offers. “It’s not just me in this, and I wasn’t the only one hurt by everything.”

Steve reaches out and threads his fingers through Tony’s. “I love you, and I think you still love me, and we’ll work everything out. I have faith.”

“I do… still love you, I mean,” Tony says, awkwardly. “If you weren’t sure about that, you, uh, you should be. I was angry; hell, I still am, but I never stopped loving you. Actually, that sucked for a very long time, after… _everything_ , because I didn’t want to love you, but I guess, now, it’s a good thing,” he says, weakly.

Steve looks torn between being overjoyed at Tony’s confession of love and wounded by a time in Tony’s life, not so long ago, where he had wished, with everything inside him, that Steve Rogers hadn’t existed, that he hadn’t and didn’t love him so miserably, if only it would make him feel like more of a _man_. 

If Steve only knew how many nights Tony had been wrenched from sleep at the mere memory of that shield coming down on his armour, on his arc reactor, watching the glass splinter and the metal crack and seeing vicious fury on his partner’s face, as if, in that moment, Steve was capable of killing him, just as easily as he had once made love to him or hugged him or danced with him or sparred with him.

“So, we’ll work on this?” Steve clarifies, hopefully.

“We’ll work on this,” Tony agrees, definitively.

He just prays that this time around, if it ends, all those soft parts of his heart don’t turn to stone along with the giant clusterfuck that is certain to ensue.

* * *

**Kharkiv, Ukraine**

When Tony opens the door to his hotel room, he almost has a heart attack when he spots Steve sitting on the sofa.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. “Don’t _do_ that!”

Steve’s lips twitch, but he quickly contorts his expression into an appropriate one of worry, approaching him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You are _not_ sorry,” Tony insists, clutching at his sides. “I know you, and I know how much of a troll you can be, and you are _not_ sorry.”

Steve laughs, gently. “I am. I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“How did you even get inside, anyway?” Tony demands.

Steve shrugs. “It wasn’t so hard. The reception staff aren’t very observant; plus, I have a Black Widow on my side.”

“Of course,” Tony mutters under his breath.  

Steve throws his arms around him in a hug that lifts him off his feet, his beard scratching against the bare skin of his neck.

Tony pulls away, immediately, and Steve cringes away, thinking that he’s done too much too early, taken a liberty he shouldn’t have, crossed a line that Tony won’t forgive.

“I just… I don’t mind the hug, but I need to say something,” Tony says, bravely.

Steve nods. “Of course. What is it?”

“I just… I want you to know: I’m forgiving you, but I won’t ever forget,” Tony warns. “If you ever do something like this again, if you ever hide something like this again, I’m done. I mean, I’m burn-you-and-everything-to-the-ground-and-destroy-the-ashes done. Understood?”

“I understand,” Steve says, roughly, clutching at him once more, curling forwards so that he’s almost dipping Tony.

“Did I ever tell you that I really like the beard?” Tony mumbles into Steve’s shoulder.

Steve grins and presses his mouth against Tony’s carotid pulse. “You didn’t, but I appreciate it.”

“Good; you shouldn’t shave it,” Tony mutters.

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” Steve reassures.

Tony had actually missed the sensation of being embraced by Steve, something that he had gone without in months, even after they had started talking again because he had been so sure he was setting himself up for disappointment.

When Tony pulls back, Steve is right _there_ and so handsome and smiling at him like he makes up the centre of his universe and Tony just can’t help himself. He kisses him, dipping his fingers into the mess of blonde hair at Steve’s nape that he hadn’t groomed, not like he would have had he still been living in the Compound (but that isn’t something Tony wants to mull over right now). The kiss turns quickly from an expression of affection or nostalgia into something hungry and greedy and dirty, prompted by the new, fierce bolt of lust that burns low in Tony’s stomach. Steve melts right into the kiss and his broad, thick arms wrap around Tony’s waist, lifting him off the ground so that Tony can hook his ankles around the back of Steve’s knees.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” Steve says, roughly, clearly feeling the same way that Tony is, if his below-the-belt situation is anything to go by.

Tony kisses him harder the second time. “I want this.”

“Oh, thank God,” Steve moans, impatiently, and bodily drags him over to the giant bed, laying him out over it.

Tony fists his hands in the shirt underneath Steve’s bomber jacket and yanks him down, kissing him again.

“Why are you still wearing clothes?” Tony pants.

Steve laughs. “We just got to the bed. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down unless you’re on the bed, naked and ripping open a condom packet, okay?” Tony growls.

Steve gives him a fond smile and leans down, stripping both of them quickly until he’s pressing down against him, skin to _glorious_ skin. Their thighs rub together as Steve kisses Tony, sweetly, as if they’re teenagers and he’s dropping Tony off after a night at the roller rink. It makes Tony equally exasperated and touched and he takes control of the kiss, his hands making a grab for Steve’s ass, squeezing.

“Tony,” Steve chuckles in his ear.

“You’re going way to slow for me,” Tony complains.

“It’s been a long time; don’t you want to drag this out?” Steve asks, gently.

“Actually, I’d much rather you fuck me into this headboard; I’ve missed that,” Tony says, cheekily.

Steve laughs. “As you wish,” he teases.

Tony groans. “Man, am I regretting showing you that movie,” he mutters. “Come on, soldier, get to it,” he orders, nudging him in the shin with cold toes.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Steve hums.

“That’s a good attitude to have,” Tony sniffs.

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Steve murmurs, mouthing at Tony’s neck until it starts to purple.

It was a kink of Steve’s that Tony had discovered very early on in their relationship, and it had given Tony much cause for ribbing, especially when he would saunter into the kitchen on the communal floor in the Avengers Tower, in just his boxers, where Natasha, Clint, Bruce, (sometimes) Thor and Steve would already be awake, with a myriad of bruises and bite marks crawling up his exposed skin.

Steve would blush and stammer and immediately drop whatever he was holding, just in time to catch it before it hit the ground, but on more than one occasion, Tony has caught him raking his eyes over the marks with enough heat in his eyes that Tony was easily tempted to drag him back upstairs for Round 41 – and well, if Tony did his runway walk into the kitchen more frequently, all’s fair in love and war.

Tony runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, as Steve’s hand runs down his body, slipping between his legs, so that he can wrap a hand around the base of his cock and stroke upwards. The action punches a noise of want out of Tony, whose free hand digs into the sheets below him, as Steve continues his relentless caress. In a matter of moments, Steve’s hand in drenched with pre-come and Tony’s head twists from side to side on the pillow as he tries so hard not to come then and there.

Once Tony feels himself edge towards that cliff, he grabs at Steve’s hands, stilling the movement.

“I don’t know how many of these I’ve got in me,” Tony pants. “But if we’re going to do more than just handjobs, we should probably stop this here.”

Steve leans down and kisses the slight curve to Tony’s stomach, something which Tony had been praying Steve wouldn’t notice, but it’s Steve and he notices everything, so it was a lost cause right from the beginning. He squirms away, but Steve holds fast, kissing his stomach again, forcibly this time, nuzzling at it until Tony begins to slacken in his grasp.

Tony hands him a packet of lube that he managed to source out of thin air, much to Steve’s surprise, but it’s lost in transition when he rolls down a condom onto Steve’s cock, which is arching towards his belly, heavy and hard and wetting his abdomen with a substantial amount of pre-come.

Unable to resist the sensation, Steve grunts and thrusts into Tony’s hand, much to his amusement.

“Where did you get lube from?” Steve pants.

Tony chuckles, roughly, enjoying how the sweat beads across Steve’s hairline, the way his muscles bunch together when Tony corkscrews upwards towards the tip of his cock.

“Never you mind,” he murmurs, patting him on the cheek with his free hand.

Steve tears open the packet of lube, squeezing out the thick, viscous gel onto his fingers, rubbing his fingers together until his entire hand is all slick and slippery. Tony scoots up towards the headboard, bending his knees and opening up his legs so that Steve could settle between. Tony chokes when Steve presses the first finger between his legs, sliding in to the knuckle with ease.

Tony laughs, breathily. “Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

_In more ways than one._

Steve ducks down and kisses the inside of his thigh. “I’ve missed this too.”

One finger becomes two, and then three, and Tony grabs onto Steve’s shoulders, his nails digging into the skin, as Steve curls his finger, searching for his prostate and rubbing it with glee, when he sees that it makes Tony whine and shake.

“Steve,” Tony grunts. “While I – _fuck_ – I appreciate the dedication – _oh, God, right there, oh, yeah_ – maybe we should get this show on the road?”

Steve grins, quick and bright, sliding his fingers out of Tony. “Of course.”

There’s still enough lube in the packet for Tony to drizzle onto his hand and jerk Steve off, just the way he likes it (Tony’s had plenty of experience in that area). Steve’s head slumps forward, his eyes drifting shut, and Tony arches his hips, leaning back onto his elbows.

Steve fists his cock, pumps it once, then twice, before settling between Tony’s legs.

Tony inhales.

“Wait,” Steve says, suddenly.

Tony deflates, looking up.

There’s red colouring Steve’s cheekbones, sweat blotting his skin; his eyes are like dark pinpricks, and his jaw is clenched, like he’s restraining himself from something.

Steve’s hands move from where they had splayed wide on the inside of his thighs to his shoulders, his grip tightening (it should’ve hurt, if Steve hadn’t been looking at him like he holds his heart in his hands). “I don’t want to fight you again. I can’t-no, I _won’t_ do it. Understand?”

His eyes are wild, desperate, like he’s barely holding onto the strings of reality.

Tony is afraid, not of Steve, but _for_ him.

He runs his hands up Steve’s biceps, in an attempt to soothe him, and pulls him close.

“I know,” he reassures. “I know you won’t. It’s okay, Steve.” He presses his mouth to Steve’s jaw, just over the darkness of his beard. “We’ll get through this, Steve. I promise. We’re going to get through this. We’ll be fine. I know we will be.”

There is no other alternative for him, not anymore, not since Steve starting chasing him all over the world – Steve is, has and always will be part of his bone marrow; there’s no pulling him out.

“Do you promise?” Steve asks, helplessly.

Tony wraps his arms around and pulls him close. “Everything’s going to be fine, Steve. I promise.”

Steve kisses his collarbone and shakes his head. He shifts back onto his heels, the resulting motion, jolting his half-hard cock against Tony’s, which gets Tony raring to go all over again.

“You still okay with this?” Steve asks, quietly.

Tony cups his face in his hands and kisses him hard. “I’m okay with this.”

Steve pumps his cock again, making sure he’s completely hard before he perches Tony onto his lap. He wraps a hand around Tony’s cock, stroking up to the tip, before pressing the head of his own cock between Tony’s legs. Tony gives way so easily, gasping when Steve slips inside. He clutches at something, the headboard, he thinks, and Steve bottoms out entirely.

Steve sets a punishing rhythm; it’s somewhere between hard and fast, and slow and calculated, but Tony loves it nonetheless. It’s somehow life-affirming to be here, in this bed, Steve on top of him, like nothing changed, even though he knows that _everything_ changed.

It doesn’t matter, because maybe they can build something better this time.

“Fuck,” Steve moans into his neck. “I love you. I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Tony kisses his jaw, then his cheek, and his eyes, and his hairline, propping Steve’s head on his breastbone, just on top of the smooth, slightly-raised, sheeny skin of his scar tissue (Steve has never cared about that, not ever, not even when there was a giant glass night light that could destroy a city right in the middle of his chest cavity).

“I believe you, Steve, I believe you,” Tony whispers, over and over again. “I love you too. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve sobs, rocking his hips forward. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry.”

Much to his own shame, tears come to Tony’s eyes as well.

“I’m sorry too. I fucked up,” he whispers. “We both did. But it’s okay. Because we can fix this; I know we can. I want to fix this.”

Steve huffs, wetly. He shakes his head, gathering himself, and hooks his hands under Tony’s thighs, bringing him further onto his lap, so that Tony’s lower half is pretty much all hovering in the air.

“Fuck,” Tony chokes out a groan when a particular thrust hits his prostate, spot-on. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Steve chuckles. He wraps his arms under Tony and pulls him up, settling him on his lap, so that Tony can wrap his arms around his neck. He fucks into him and Tony jostles in accordance with the thrusts. Steve runs a hand down the length of Tony’s spine, holds him like he’s made of diamonds, like he’s so precious and worthy. Tony digs his teeth into Steve’s neck, just when another one of his thrusts gets his prostate.

“I forgot how much of an animal in the sack you are,” he pants.

Steve laughs. “Did you miss it?” he asks, breathlessly, quickening his pace until he’s practically pounding into Tony.

“Yes, yes, _fuck_ , I missed it,” Tony moans.

“Good,” Steve growls, his voice going rough like sandpaper, something akin to urgency and impatience colouring his voice; it was almost like he had never been brought to tears just moments ago.

Steve doesn’t stop fucking him relentlessly, and finally, almost as if he’s willing to give Tony a break, he wraps a hand around Tony’s cock and jerks him off, quick but deliberately, and Tony comes _hard_. He doesn’t know if it’s Steve’s skill, his own self-imposed celibacy these past few months, or the emotions behind this encounter, but his vision bleeds white when he collapses back onto the bed.

He doesn’t even register when Steve comes, although later, he’ll spot the used condom in the trash can and know that he did. He doesn’t know when Steve leaves him to go over to the bathroom to wet a washcloth. However, Tony does register when the cool, damp washcloth wipes him down, and then Steve, in turn. Steve kicks out the covers and pulls him under, spooning him until he’s all soft and warm and supple.

Steve presses his mouth to Tony’s hair. “How do you feel?” he rumbles.

“Like you tenderised me,” Tony slurs.

Steve chuckles. “Can I make a joke about meat and pounding?”

Tony huffs into the pillow. “Troll,” he accuses.

“Maybe,” Steve agrees. “But I’m _your_ troll.”

“Ugh, sappy much,” Tony complains.

Steve laughs.

“Thank you,” Tony murmurs, turning around in Steve’s arms. “Thank you for following me around the world and gatecrashing my plans every chance you got. I really appreciated it.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, amused. “Just, uh, please, don’t throw wine at me anymore,” he murmurs, kissing his neck.

Tony pats his side. “No promises.”


End file.
